Chapter 2
Chapter Two
DRIFTWOOD BAY
Immediately upon rising, Keaton made his bed.
It was just the way he rolled. Living alone, he could’ve let lots of things slide, but he preferred to behave the same way when others were watching him as when they weren’t.
That meant he used the shower squeegee on the glass door.
Never left dishes in the sink. Always picked up and kept his rental neat.
He also felt it was important to tip service workers, and he did so generously, from the barista who made his coffee at Coastal Roast to servers in the restaurants he patronized in the Bay.
He wasn’t so far removed from living paycheck to paycheck and knew tips were not a luxury for them. They were a necessity.
Dressing in sweats, he left the house for his daily, five-mile jog.
It was a time he looked forward to every morning.
The run cleared his head. Centered him for the day.
And it let him indulge in drinking beer.
Bayside Brewery, a local craft beer hall, had become a place he enjoyed going to sip beer and people-watch.
Once he returned home, Keaton showered, shaved, and dressed for the day, deciding to go into the gallery and catch up on paperwork.
He had opened Gulf Coastal Gallery six months ago, not only to showcase his own art, but that of local artists along the Texas Gulf Coast. The gallery was only open three days a week now, due to it being post-tourist season, but it was still thriving.
He enjoyed displaying all kinds of art, from paintings and sculptures to photographs and textile art, as well as highlighting other artists.
Keaton made himself a cup of coffee and a bowl of cereal and scrolled through his phone over breakfast, seeing what had happened in national and international news overnight.
He wasn’t into social media and had no profiles on any of the popular platforms. Just as he had learned the ins and outs of creating a website for himself as an artist, he had also built a website for the gallery, updating it regularly.
He took pride in being self-sufficient and learning new things.
Rinsing his mug and bowl, he placed them in the full dishwasher and started it, turning the magnet from clean to dirty.
He would need to stop at the grocery store later today to pick up a few things for Christmas dinner, which was two days away.
Keaton had no family, but he had made some friends in the seven months he had resided in Driftwood Bay and would be sharing Christmas dinner with Mila’s parents and family.
Mila and Carson lived across the street from him, in a house they were caring for while its owner professor was on sabbatical in Australia for a year.
The couple had also broken ground on a house down the street, having first razed the dilapidated house sitting on the property.
His other friend, Sullivan Shepherd, had designed the house and would help oversee its building.
Sullivan had returned to New York to spend Christmas with his family, something he hadn’t been looking forward to.
Keaton was eager to also be in his own place instead of renting.
Money was no object because of his soaring career, but he was picky when it came to real estate.
He wanted to be on the water, which soothed his soul.
It was the reason he had moved to Driftwood Bay on a whim after living for two years in the Wyoming mountains at Jackson Hole.
House inventory in the Bay was low, however, and his realtor, Hillary Horton, had broadened the search from existing homes to open waterfront property, where he could build from scratch.
If he didn’t insist on having an art studio on the grounds, he might have decided to live on a houseboat, but that wouldn’t be conducive for painting.
He just hoped Hillary would find something soon.
He was ready to work with Sullivan and build his dream home, sinking roots into a community which had welcomed him.
Before he headed to the gallery, he made a stop at Coastal Charms Boutique, a shop on the town’s square, which was owned by Mila’s mother.
He picked up a pair of silver hoop earrings, having the clerk wrap them in Christmas paper before he drove to the waterfront.
The area was full of restaurants and shops, and he had lucked into renting space at the end of a long row of businesses for Gulf Coast Gallery.
Pulling up to park, he saw Stacy’s car. He had been fortunate to land Stacy to run the gallery for him, freeing himself up to paint.
She had been an art history major in college who had taught art at the local middle school for several years.
When he first opened his gallery, she had come in to peruse the art, telling him that she was a former painter who no longer had time to paint.
Keaton was a good judge of character, and his gut told him that Stacy was the answer to a question he didn’t even know he was asking.
He had flat out asked her during that first meeting if she would be interested in managing his new gallery, saying she could hire as much help as she wished.
Keaton explained he wanted it open seven day a week during tourist season, from ten to seven, but after summer ended, the gallery times would cut back to three days a week.
Stacy had leapt at the chance for a career change and resigned from her teaching position.
With her two teenagers busy with school and extracurricular activities and a recent divorce behind her, she had thrived both as a manager and now artist, taking time to reacquaint herself with her passion for painting.
Stacy had two paintings on display at the gallery now, along with some shell art she had created using local shells and driftwood found along the shore. She was balancing her time and making the most of it, and Keaton could tell she was a much happier woman than the one he had met back in June.
He entered the gallery, and his employee gave him a smile, rising to greet him.
She worked the three days a week herself during the off-season, deciding to only hire additional help during the long summer hours.
The rest of the time she painted in her converted garage, which now served as her studio.
“Haven’t seen you in a week, Keaton.”
He handed her the small package. “Merry Christmas, Stacy.”
“Why, thank you, Boss.”
She went to the desk she had been sitting at and opened a drawer, handing him an envelope with Christmas stickers adorning in.
They both opened their gifts simultaneously, with her exclamation of pleasure over the earrings, while he thanked her for the concert tickets to see a country artist whose music he had mentioned to her that he enjoyed.
Case Wellborne had been a part of Keaton’s construction crew years ago, as well as an inspiration to him.
Case began playing shows around Dallas and eventually landed a recording contract.
He’d left the crew to pursue music full-time.
Since Case had made it, Keaton had pushed himself, hoping he could follow in the other man’s footsteps.
Now, he owned his own gallery and commanded hefty prices for his landscapes.
It was nice to think that both he and Case had made something of themselves.
Glancing at the date on the tickets, he saw the concert was in Houston.
“Houston?” he asked.
Stacy shrugged. “I knew you said you liked Case Wellborne’s music.
He wasn’t coming to Corpus on the tour, and the San Antonio date was sold out.
Houston was as close as I could get.” She paused, studying him.
“I insist you go, Keaton. Not because I gave you the tickets but because you need to get out. Think about more than painting.”
He looked at the tickets again, seeing the concert wasn’t for a few months.
He wondered if he would ask anyone to accompany him to it. Maybe this would motivate him to look for a date.
“I can’t thank you enough for changing the trajectory of my life,” Stacy told him.
“I existed all these years, teaching art to uninterested students, putting my own art on a back burner. Working at Gulf Coastal Gallery has not only given me the opportunity to step back into the art world again, but I also have time now to pursue painting.”
“I’m thankful we connected,” he said. “Now, why don’t you go on and leave? Nobody is shopping for art two days before Christmas. And remember, I’m closing the gallery until after New Year’s.”
“I’m so grateful for the time off. Blake is playing in a basketball tournament after Christmas, and I’ll be able to make every game with the gallery closed.”
“I’m going to stay and play with the books a while,” he said. “Enjoy Christmas with your family.”
“Have a Merry Christmas, Keaton,” Stacy said, slipping into her jacket and claiming her purse from the bottom desk drawer.
After she left, he flipped the sign on the door from open to closed and retreated to his office in the back, beyond the storeroom.
He put the tickets in the lap drawer and then went through the books for the last month, making a few payments and handling some dental insurance for a claim with Stacy’s son.
He also emailed three artists about which pieces of work they would like to have on display at the gallery come the new year.
Each had sold a piece or two in the past few weeks.
When the gallery reopened after the holidays, he wanted the public to be greeted with fresh art, from paintings to sculptures to mixed media pieces.
He heard a loud banging on the door and figured someone must be desperate for a last-minute Christmas present.
Glancing at his watch, he saw it was almost three o’clock.
He made his way back into the gallery showroom and saw his real estate agent on the other side of the glass door. Unlocking the door, he let her in.